


A Song of Lost Innocence

by silience



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Light Angst, Non-Graphic Violence, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 21:19:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2362520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silience/pseuds/silience
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>killua struggles with the expectations set upon him by his family. alone and injured, he finds a way to rise from the ashes once again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Song of Lost Innocence

**Author's Note:**

> so this is a bday fic gift to beckie !!! this was inspired from one of banafria's artworks ;;;;;

 

blood tastes a bit like abject despair, slightly like vulnerability and a lot like hopelessness. the fire flickers in the torches, the shadows shift across the walls, monsters creeping, laughing at this blatant display of weakness. he remains slumped on the brickwork, too fatigued, energy sucked out of him so that every limb feels dull and heavy. it’s not too cold, he thinks. he can sleep here, rest for a day or two until he can get back on his feet again. that’s how it always was and how it will always be. an infinite cycle where there is no starting point, probably no finish line either. he can’t even remember when this all began. was it when he turned three or four? how old is he now? he doesn’t know. or maybe his brain is just showing signs of slowing down, its functions failing him like the rest of this useless small body. frailty is not in the zoldycks. it’s not something that one should cultivate. defeat and failure are not acceptable. it should not exist unless his opponent’s strength overpowers his. then he should dodge, avoid, escape, calculate.

 

a gust of wind flutters above him, brushes through his filthy hair, chilly as mint. his fingers twitch and his eyes slide open. the azure blue’s radiance is gone somewhere, carelessly tossed aside and there’s an amorphous vacuum that has taken its place. physical aches are meaningless; the burn is his shoulder, the throbbing of his fingers, the soreness of his throat, they barely register. what looms over him is the humiliation. his grandfather was present today, to oversee his overall performance and illumi managed to knock him down with a set of moves that were unexpected. he did manage to land a blow but he could predict it was either pure luck or illumi pitied him enough to allow him a hit. it doesn’t matter much in the end. he lost. it didn’t take too long to knock him out and he can vividly imagine silva’s and zeno’s disappointed frowns, the downturned edges of their lips, their backs turning away on him so they wouldn’t witness more of the outcome.

 

he should probably rise. milluki might walk in on him and killua doesn’t think he can bear being subjected to any further acts of derision. the possibility alone drives him to stand up on shaky legs that might betray him any second. his head is buzzing with frothy exhaustion as though he consumed a drug and it’s finally taking effect. one step, two steps, three steps. he stops, his stomach churning with distaste, his chest constricting rapidly; the amplified sound of his harsh pants reverberate throughout the dungeon. he resumes walking cautiously, his feet dragging the dead weight of his body and his soul. he wonders if anyone’s watching him right now, if they’re assessing his state of mind, making tiny notes in their head to lecture him later. _you have to be the best, killua. it’s your destiny afterall._ he crosses over the threshold. there’s something wet trickling down his wrist, it spills into his palm and slides down his fingers. he doesn’t want to be anything. he doesn't believe in fate or destiny or that something is meant to happen. _predestination_ , he remembers and his lips stiffly curve up. the corridors stretch, a labyrinth of the distorted human imagination, the swaying flames in the iron torches are almost blue, dancing this direction and that, controlled by the passing capricious drafts. locks of pure silver graze his cheeks, stirred by a fresh breeze. that can only mean that he’s close to the exit. the relief quickens his heartbeat and blankets the bile in his throat. the corridor opens left and continues forward so far that one can’t see where it ends so if an intruder lost their way, they’d never find the way out, forever trapped in a bewildering rabbit’s hole.

 

he found it around half a year ago, wandering the mansion while suffering from a fit of painful boredom. it was only because of the whistle of wind his ears picked up, a tune of quiet, unintrusive music carried by the drafts. he turns left, counts his footfalls: one, two, three, four, five, six. the wall doesn’t bear a special marking or a difference in the structure that distinguishes it from the rest of the corridor. it stands tall, a proud construction that holds the mansion resting over its shoulders. killua gently places his palm against the brick, his fingers roam, earnestly seeking. if illumi is watching, killua won’t hesitate, not while there’s still the contention of fight and defiance souring inside of him. he’s a child of resistance, he’ll pick himself up after he trips and falls and he’ll be stronger every time. winning is fortitude and self reliance. he may never accumulate enough experience and strength to stand against illumi, he may remain enslaved to relentless, inscrutable fear but he can stand up again, can’t he? there is one thing killua learned about humanity from countless missions he’s undertaken: only humans have the tenacity and resolve to get up and struggle for survival.

 

the whistle lightly streams over his skin and instantly his face brightens with the brilliant success. his hand contorts; fingernails sharpening and growing longer, the veins pushing up against the toughened skin. he pushes the tip of his needle tapered nail into a barely perceptible hole from where he’s sensing the breeze and twists. the wall is silent as it slides open just enough for a single person to file out. the sunlight washes over him, warm and affectionate as it envelops him in the weakened afternoon rays. he steps out of the mansion, soundlessly relishing in the flutters of the undulating winds. Big dry leaves plucked out of the oak trees skitter across the gravel, some floating on the surface of a river cutting through the earth. the wind tangles in his hair and slips underneath his shirt, soothing the untended wounds. he steps out and the wall shifts back into place quietly like a guard instructed to keep an eye out for him who had a startling change of heart and allowed him escape. he suspects there are a multitude of doors of such nature and he’s accidentally discovered one of them. he faces the forest once again. where can he seek shelter? the lush, orange and red streaked forest goes on for miles. if he follows the gravel, he’ll reach the butlers’ residence and from there, if he continues down the path, he’ll find the front gate guard’s home. southwest is a playground and near it is the bathhouse. nowhere he can stay without intrusion so he resigns himself to right where he is. he slumps against the wall, his legs finally give out underneath him so he contents himself by sitting with his legs spread out in front of him. continents of bruises spatter the pale thighs, mottled and in varying states of development.

 

“illumi let himself go,” he says, his voice hoarse from the strike aimed at his throat. “tch. the asshole.”

 

the sun is sinking when a rustle comes from the gathered thickets. killua’s blood swarms; he pushes himself up, on guard against whomever is sent to locate him. the floor of the forest tremors, frightened birds take flight, quick as arrows of weightless bodies. the thickets part ways and killua’s heart threatens to burst out to sail across the sky along with the birds.

 

mike’s head pokes through the leaves, his beady eyes glinting with an inquisitive life. killua’s body relaxes, ropes of anxiety unfurling like loose ribbons.

 

“mike,” he shakes his head, shaky laughter trailing after the dog’s name. “you scared me to death, did you know that?” the dog doesn’t respond, the fur covering its body stirs lightly along with every wayward blow of air. he’s been growing at an alarming rate, his limbs elongating and his fur thickening each passing day. it’s been two years since his father bought him from an underground auction as a pup small enough to carry around. killua suspects anyone can pull him up an inch off the ground.

 

killua closes his eyes, his hands burrowed in tufts of grass and daisies and wild flowers. the air smells of overgrowth, nettles, citrus and rainwater, a revelation after a long period inhaling the stifling dungeon air. he’s slipping into a spell of insouciant nap when he feels a surge of hot languorous breath. the next thing he knows, a wet tongue is poking around his clothed injured shoulder. he opens his eyes to find mike’s own pair staring back, animate and concerned. killua smiles and reaches out to pet the dog’s head. mike allows him to for a minute and then his nose is nuzzling killua’s cheek affectionately. laughter spills out of his throat and mike’s licking his cheek, zealous at having accomplished such a deed.

 

“thank you, mike,” killua mumbles, rubbing the dog’s jaw with both of his hands.

 

after that the dog settles beside him, warming him up from the night’s claws and killua briefly thinks about how much he’d love having a real human being next to him, their beating hearts proof of their existence, of a life lived, of memories brimming up like an overflow of water. just for a minute, he entertains the fantasy of another boy; his face is faded around the edges but the rest of him is sketched in killua’s head. he has a smile that can set fires and snuff them out and a voice that can make killua feel right at home because he doesn’t have anywhere else to return to. he wraps his arms around mike’s body which is too large for killua to hug completely. he shivers and a brittle chuckle, as thin as his withering soul, floats into the dead of the night.

 

 


End file.
